Parrots Don't Talk
by dust on the wind
Summary: When you're dead, and it's your birthday, and your best mate needs his life saved, and the only help available is a parrot - well, what's a ghost supposed to do? (For the Writers Anonymous Random Opener Challenge.)


_For the Writers Anonymous Random Opener Challenge._

_This story takes place during the first series of the 2000 version of Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased). My apologies for the language, it's the parrot's fault. Well, mostly._

* * *

All right, maybe it wasn't the best way to start off a conversation.

To be fair, it wasn't really the start, and whatever Jeannie might have thought, Jeff wasn't actually talking to her at the time. She'd walked into the office right when he was in the middle of an argument with her fiancé, who also happened to be Jeff's business partner and best friend. But since Marty was dead, it wasn't easy to explain. The last time Jeff had tried, Jeannie had booked him into a therapy clinic, or as Marty had described it "a nut house". Neither Jeff nor Marty wanted to go through that again; let alone the risk of upsetting Jeannie. She hadn't yet got over losing Marty the day before their wedding. She probably never would.

The fact that Marty had manifested right between Jeff and the door didn't help. It meant Jeff was looking directly at Jeannie when she arrived, to be greeted, so far as she knew, by an accusation of being "the most selfish, childish, inconsiderate git I've ever met". It was really embarrassing, especially since Marty faded out immediately, leaving Jeff to face Jeannie's startled, wounded look.

He burst into speech without thinking: "No, not you, Jeannie. I was... I... I was just on the phone... to... to..."

"The accountant," suggested Marty, coalescing somewhere near Jeff's left ear.

"The accountant." A second too late, Jeff realised what he'd just said. With an effort which almost strained a neck muscle, he kept himself from turning a furious glare on his late associate.

"The accountant." Jeannie let the words fall dead.

She wasn't buying it. He'd have to try harder. "Yeah, he kept going on and on about VAT returns and cash flow. I told him we can't have cash flow without any cash, and he got upset. He's in the wrong business, if you ask me. You think it's tough being a private detective, but it's nothing compared to accounting." She still didn't look convinced, so he hastily changed the subject. "It's a bit late for you to be getting in, isn't it?"

"I suppose so." Her tone was still cool, so she must be still annoyed. But Jeff suddenly noticed she looked a bit peaky.

"Are you all right, Jeannie?" he asked.

"Fine." She dropped her handbag on her desk. "No. I'm not fine, Jeff. I'm not fine at all. You know what today is, don't you?"

"Uh... well... "

"It's Marty's birthday."

"It's my birthday," said Marty, at the exact same instant.

"Is it?" Jeff felt himself going red. He hadn't forgotten, exactly, but he'd avoided thinking about it, which probably came to the same thing.

"And you call _me_ inconsiderate." Marty's grumble trailed off into petulant muttering.

Jeannie was searching in her bag. "I couldn't sleep last night. I just kept thinking, this time last year…"

"I know. Jeannie, I'm so sorry." Jeff went to give her a hug, but remembering Marty's hostility to any display of affection, he settled instead for an awkward pat on her shoulder.

"They say it gets easier, eventually." She had found her handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara. "I don't know if I believe it. I'm not even sure if that's what I want. I miss him every day, Jeff, but if I didn't it would be like losing him for good."

Jeff uttered a rueful sigh. "I think about him every day, too."

"You don't miss me, though," Marty pointed out.

"I never get the chance."

"Sorry?" Jeannie stopped dabbing at her eyes and stared at him.

"Uh... " Even now, Jeff sometimes had trouble remembering that, for Jeannie as for everyone else, Marty wasn't there. He made a quick attempt to cover his mistake. "I mean, we should do something, maybe go somewhere nice for dinner, you and me. You know, just to mark the occasion."

Instantly, the papers on his desk began to lift, as if stirred by an angry exhalation of breath. He stepped back and sat with his right buttock firmly planted on the restless pages.

She bit her lower lip. "I don't think so. Sorry, but I don't feel like going out."

"Oh, come on, Jeannie. It's better than sitting at home on your own."

"Is that what you'll be doing?"

"Well... " The fact was, ever since Marty had risen from his grave to solve his own murder, Jeff could never be sure whether, at any given moment, he was actually on his own.

Misunderstanding his hesitance, Jeannie put aside her irritation, and laid her cool soft hand on top of his. "All right, Jeff. But let's go somewhere quiet, just the two of us."

"She means, the three of us," added Marty, his eyes glowing. Literally, glowing. Jeff had never seen this effect before, and he suddenly felt even more fed up. Fed up with dead people in general, and in particular with jealous dead people who had no reason for being jealous. He and Jeannie were just friends. Nothing more.

"You know," he said casually, "Marty always really liked Gesualdo's."

"I hated Gesualdo's," growled Marty.

"Really?" said Jeannie. "He never mentioned it."

"Didn't he? Oh, well, maybe he thought you'd get upset, seeing as you were working at Domani. Going to the competition, you know."

He got a smile out of her, anyway. "Too tactful? Jeff, we both loved Marty to bits, but don't go putting him on a pedestal. I don't think he even knew what tact was."

"Well, that's nice. Speaking ill of the dead, right in front of his face, on his birthday." Marty's voice died away in a peevish mutter as his spirit form faded from view. Well, if he wanted to go off in a strop, Jeff wasn't going to stop him. He'd be back soon enough.

At least it was safe now for Jeff to stop using his backside as an improvised paperweight. Just as well, because he was getting pins and needles in his leg. He slid off the desk, trying to stand normally. "Well, what about Gesualdo's, then? It's not as flash as where you used to work, but it's nice."

Jeannie wavered, her lips just beginning to curve into a smile. It never came to its full beauty, though, because just as it reached her eyes, the ringing of the phone killed it dead. She picked it up: "Randall and Hopkirk Security Services... yes, he's here. Hold the line, please."

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand: "It's Sparrowfart."

"Oh, bloody hell, what now?" Jeff took the receiver, pinned on a fake smile, and spoke: "Mr Sparrowfield? Jeff Randall speaking. What can I do for you?"

He held the phone away from his ear slightly, since the caller had a very penetrating and surprising high-pitched voice: "Good news, Mr Randall. That lying, cheating, philandering woman has finally agreed to give up her claim."

"You mean your former wife?"

"Yes. She's giving me custody of the parrot," announced Sparrowfart, in a triumphant tone which must have been audible from the street outside.

It was certainly loud enough for Jeannie to hear it. "Does this mean we get paid at last?" she whispered.

She had every right to be sceptical. Marty had taken this particular client on without consulting Jeff, and the matter had been dragging on for over a year when he took his final ride into eternity. Jeff had been trying to close the file ever since, but somehow the stingy old bugger had always avoided paying his outstanding fees by thinking of something else he wanted done before he settled up.

Early on, Marty's infantile sense of humour had led him to start referring to his client as "Sparrowfart", an improvement which Jeff had resisted, at least until he had inherited the case.

He gave Jeannie a stern look, hoping she couldn't see how close he was to collapsing into helpless giggling. "I'm really pleased for you, Mr Sparrowfield. So does this mean you won't be needing our services any more?"

"There's just one more thing," bellowed Sparrowfart. "I'm not setting foot in that woman's house. Who knows what the spiteful cow might do if she finds me on her doorstep? She tried to poison me once, you know."

"I know." Boy, did Jeff ever know. Sooner or later, every conversation with Sparrowfart came to the same point.

"No jury in the world would have convicted her," said Jeannie under her breath.

"Anyway, I haven't got the time. I've got to go to a business meeting in Bognor Regis."

_Business meeting, my arse, _thought Jeff. From the cynical look in Jeannie's eye, she was thinking it, too. One thing their investigations had turned up was the address in Bognor where Sparrowfart's fancy woman lived.

"So you'll have to go and get my parrot," Sparrowfart concluded. "And you'd best go today, before she changes her mind."

Jeannie's eyes narrowed. _Don't_, she mouthed at Jeff.

"Of course, Mr Sparrowfield," said Jeff. "Is she still staying in her grandfather's old place in Canley? I'll call round there this afternoon, and fetch it round to you this evening. I'll bring our fee invoice, so you can settle up straight away instead of having to wait for it."

Whether Sparrowfart noticed the very broad hint was open to question. "No, not this evening. I won't be back from Bognor till tomorrow. Call round after eleven," he roared, and blessed silence followed.

"Jeff, you're such a pushover," Jeannie burst out. "Only last week, you swore you weren't going to do any more work for that man."

"I know, I know. But he's been trying to get his parrot back for ages."

"Don't tell me you're sorry for him."

"Sparrowfart? Not a chance!" Jeff gave her a grin. "But if I turn up with his parrot in one hand, and our bill in the other, he might forget what a tight-fisted old sod he is, and pay up."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Well, I'll tell you what. You can put in a couple of hours going through the time sheets, and then make out the invoice, while I call round and see Mrs Sparrowfart," said Jeff. "I'll meet you at Gesualdo's at seven, all right?"

"All right. As long as you don't bring the parrot."

"That'd be nice, wouldn't it?" He gave her a grin. "It'd save time, anyway. The restaurant's halfway between here and Canley."

"Well, if you do, you can leave it in the car," said Jeannie. "I am not sitting down to dinner with a parrot. It'll do all the talking, and I won't be able to get a word in."

He went towards the door. "Jeannie, you know parrots don't really talk. It's all..."

"Mimicry. I know. Jeff..."

He stopped in the doorway, glancing back. She was looking at him, with that adorable little crease between her eyebrows. _No, not adorable_, he told himself. _Not even a little bit_.

Jeannie hesitated before she went on. "When I got here just now, and you said..."

"I wasn't talking to you, Jeannie. Like I said..."

"I know. You were talking to Marty, weren't you?"

He knew he was blushing. "Marty? No, why would you think...?"

"Because it's just exactly the sort of thing you would say to him. It's okay, Jeff. I talk to him, too, when I'm alone. I know he can't hear me, but sometimes I get so angry with him. For not being here, and for dying in such a stupid, pointless way, just when... "

"Oh, Jeannie." Jeff went and put his arm around her. It was safe enough now, since Marty wasn't around to get upset about it. She leaned against him, her hair tickling his nose. It took all his willpower to resist dropping a soft kiss on her cheek. Not the right time. It never was, somehow.

After a minute or so, she gently freed herself. "There. I feel better now. You'd better go and get the parrot."

He wavered. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"No. But I will be. Get going." With an air of determination, she went to the filing cabinet, pulled out the horrible, barely contained mess of a file which recorded their dealings with Sparrowfart, and thumped it down on the desk, then looked at Jeff. "I won't tell you again."

"All right, I'm off. See you later."

He got halfway down the stairs, stopped in his tracks, then ran up again. "Forgot the address," he explained, leaning across the desk to rummage through the file. "I know it's in Canley, somewhere... here we go, 12 Fulton Close." He gave Jeannie a would-be nonchalant wink, and for the second time, set off.

A minute later, he was back. Jeannie had anticipated it. "Car keys," she said, holding them up. He tweaked them out of her hand, ignoring the lurking twinkle in her eyes, and made his third exit. At least he'd cheered her up.

It was past lunch time, and he couldn't face Mrs Sparrowfart on an empty stomach; so he stopped at the nearest pub for a pie and chips. He could have saved some time if he'd had a hamburger on the way, but Marty might appear any second, and he always got so fussy about anything messy in the car. Anyway, there was no particular hurry as far as Jeff was concerned, and he lingered over his second beer.

Finding his way around the back streets of Canley, however, took longer than he'd expected, so it was late in the afternoon before he finally walked up to the front door of a house which had clearly seen better days, but which still had a kind of run-down elegance. There was a note pinned to the door: _Dear Alfred, I'm off to Malaga with a man who's much younger than you. He's much better hung, too. Your stupid bird is in the study. I hope it gives you the mange._

"At least they're both being grown-up about it," said Jeff out loud. As a matter of routine, he rang the bell and waited for a bit before he tried the door. It wasn't locked, so he went inside and found himself in a dim little entrance hall. It might have been quite nice if the walls hadn't been painted a very depressing shade of mid-puce, which cast an unhealthy-looking gloom across the parquet floor and continued up the stairs into darkness.

"Is anyone here?" Jeff called out. After a few moments, a sound reached his ears; possibly a voice, coming from somewhere upstairs. He didn't really want to go up there, at least not without sending someone else up first to do a bit of spectral reconnaissance. After all, Mrs Sparrowfart had allegedly tried to murder her husband at least once. She might be planning a repeat performance.

"Marty?" Jeff whispered. "_Marty_!"

No response. The moody so-and-so must still be off in Limbo, sulking. There was no alternative, so Jeff put his hand on the newel post, took a deep breath, and ascended.

He stopped on the landing. Three doors, all closed. "Hello?" he said

"_Bastard_!" The response seemed to have come from behind the door on his left. He braced himself and went in.

The room he entered was no better lit than the landing outside, since the windows were obscured by heavy curtains. As he peered around, he heard the flutter of wings, followed by a disconcertingly hoarse greeting: "You little short-arsed prick!"

Well, it wasn't the first time he'd been called that, although never by what sounded very like a parrot.

He went to pull back the drapes, and blinked at the glare of the afternoon sun. "What a pillock!" shrieked the parrot.

As Jeff's eyes adjusted, he got his first look at it; a very pretty green bird perched on the back of a chair which had some serious beak marks in it. A cage stood empty on the desk behind it. The room was quite narrow, and contained, in addition to the desk, a couple of armchairs, a big filing cabinet and a pair of bookcases which, filled beyond their capacity, had overspilled onto every available surface, including the mantelpiece over the little open fireplace. Mrs Sparrowfart's grandfather must have been a collector, or possibly a hoarder; and from the scraps of paper lying about, it looked like the bird had been amusing itself during its incarceration by shredding selected works and scattering them across the threadbare carpet.

The parrot glanced at the open doorway and ruffled its wings. "Oh, bollocks," said Jeff, and flung himself forward, just in time. The door slammed shut, and the bird, its escape thwarted, made a quick circuit of the room before settling on the mantelpiece.

"Okay, chum. You're coming with me," said Jeff.

The creature fixed him with an evil yellow glare. "Bastard!" it muttered again.

"I suppose you learned that from Mrs Sparrowfart, did you?"

A grumbling noise came from the parrot, followed by a remark which was coarse enough to bring a blush to Jeff's cheeks. He thought he'd heard everything since he'd been in the detective business, but this was a new one.

"That'll do, Polly," he said. "Come along, now."

Polly gave a chirruping noise, and nudged one of the books with its beak, so it landed on the floor just in front of the fireplace. A second volume followed, landing closer to the grate and sending up a cloud of ashes and a tiny wisp of smoke. Apparently the fire hadn't been extinguished properly, but that wasn't Jeff's problem. He picked up the birdcage. "Get in."

"Bugger off, you useless little sod." The bird tipped off a few more books, and took flight to the top of one of the bookcases, where it landed on what looked like a stack of very old newspapers. From there, well out of Jeff''s reach, it sent forth a mocking laugh. If it hadn't been for that, Jeff might have given up; but that cackle put his back up.

"Right," he growled, and fetched the chair. It wasn't high enough for him to get to the parrot, even standing on his toes. Without thinking, he put his foot on one of the shelves and hoisted himself up. The bookcase wobbled, tilted, almost righted itself, and finally toppled.

"Shit!" The word came simultaneously from both Jeff and the parrot. Jeff fell hard, and tried to twist himself out of the way, but there wasn't time.

_Well, that's me dead, then_, he thought. _I suppose Marty will say it serves me right_.

Then there was nothing.

* * *

At the very same moment (inasmuch as the concept had any meaning on the other side), Marty was sitting in an imaginary armchair, in the non-existent study of his spirit mentor, receiving some very unwelcome otherworldly counsel. He had got into the habit of seeking Wyvern's sympathy whenever he was at odds with Jeff, but somehow Wyvern never seemed very sympathetic. On this occasion Marty's descent from the heights of righteous indignation to what could only be described as an extreme state of the sulks had been particularly rapid.

"But it's my birthday," he complained, for the fifth time.

"Indeed. Mr Hopkirk. Wonderful things, birthdays," said Wyvern. "Presents, good wishes, parties, cake – oh, yes, birthday cake! I remember my last birthday cake so well. Dark chocolate sponge, whipped cream, kirsch-soaked cherries... But that's for the living. Once you have left the mortal realm, your birthday isn't a happy day, but a day of sorrow for those left behind. Your Jeannie, for instance."

"Yeah, I know, but she's... "

"Of course, you'd like her to spend the day sitting beside your grave, weeping for you. And Mr Randall as well, no doubt."

"Ha! As if he'd care." Marty dismissed the idea with a flick of his fingers. "Anyway, he knows I'm still around."

"So you think he doesn't mourn your death?" Wyvern's voice took on the additional resonance which always made Marty feel like he was being judged, and found wanting. "You believe, just because you are still present, he doesn't grieve for what might have been if you had lived, nor blame himself for what happened? "

"Does he?" Marty considered this new viewpoint, gradually relaxing into the astral equivalent of a self-satisfied smirk. "Well, so he should. I mean, I don't actually _want _him to, but... Does he, really?"

"I'm not privy to his inner thoughts," replied Wyvern in magisterial tones, "but the mere fact that he overlooked such a significant day in the first year of your afterlife cannot be disregarded. And stop looking so pleased about it. Jeff was right. You really are the most selfish, childish, inconsiderate... "

"Sorry, Wyvern. I'd better get back," Marty broke in. "Don't want to miss my own birthday party." And he dissolved into the ether.

He took form again in the office. "All right, Jeff," he announced cheerfully. "I forgive you... Jeff?"

He'd gone wrong, somehow. Only Jeannie was there, and she was putting on her coat. Usually, some weird ghostly instinct drew him to wherever Jeff happened to be. He didn't know how it worked; all he knew was, this time it hadn't.

"Jeannie," he said urgently, "where's Jeff?" He might as well have saved his energy. She looked around the office one more time, switched off the light, and left. Marty remained alone, hovering in a state of unease which was escalating rapidly. Why hadn't he gone straight to Jeff?

"Don't panic, Marty," he told himself. "He's all right. Of course he is." But when he tried to sense Jeff's whereabouts, it just made him feel weak and dizzy.

_If he's not all right... if something's happened to him..._

No. He wouldn't have it. Not on his birthday of all days. He gathered every scrap of energy he had, and sent out a frantic mental call: "_Jeff!_"

Nothing. Then, just before he reached the point of despair, an answer came, faint and distant: "_Marty... _"

He seized it, and followed it, so fast he could barely keep himself together, until...

"Arse!"

Marty hadn't expected that. Startled, he flickered away for a few seconds, but made a quick comeback: "Jeff?"

To his horror, the response came from beneath a great heavy bookcase which lay almost flat across the floor: "Marty! Where the hell have you been?"

Instantly, Marty relocated to the other side of the disaster. "What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" Jeff snapped. There was a thin trickle of blood running across his forehead. "It fell over, didn't it?"

"Bloody hell! Are you hurt? Can you move?"

"No, I bloody can't."

"It's your back, isn't it? Your back's broken."

Jeff drew an impatient breath. Whether he was hurt or not, he was certainly in a very bad mood. "No, my back's fine. I hit my head, I've been out for a bit, but that's all. When I say I can't move, what I mean is I can't get out. There's a chair under here with me, it's taken most of the weight, but it's got me wedged in and I can't shift without bringing the whole lot down on top of me. You'll have to get help."

"Oh, and how am I supposed to do that? You're the only one who can see me."

"You're a dickhead." That wasn't Jeff. Marty spun round.

"Is that a parrot?" he asked.

"It belongs to Sparrowfart. I'm meant to be taking it back to him," said Jeff, his voice strained. "Look, Marty, never mind the parrot. I don't think the chair's going to hold up for long. And that's not the only thing." With the one hand which was free, he gestured towards the fireplace, where a little flame was kindling around a couple of books which had fallen into the embers. Scattered around were more books, loose pages and old newspapers. "That's liable to catch on fire any minute, and I won't be able to do anything about it."

"Serves you right, you tosser," remarked the parrot.

"Oh, shut up!" The look Jeff turned on the bird should have sent it hurtling into oblivion. "Honestly, Marty, I'd wring its neck if I could get to it. Every time I take my eyes off it, the little bugger sneaks round and bites me on the ear."

Marty was studying the parrot as well. "I've got an idea," he said.

The parrot stared back at him, suddenly quiet. For ten seconds, there was silence; then Jeff broke out: "Marty, for heaven's sake, man!"

"All right, Jeff, don't shout."

Jeff's eyes widened. "Oh, you didn't."

"I did." Marty stretched his neck, and flapped his borrowed wings. "I'm out of practice, though. I haven't done this for a bit. You got really cross with me, the last time I possessed anything."

"Only because the last thing you possessed was me," Jeff shot back, "and it took me weeks to get over it. Watch what you're doing. I'm supposed to hand that parrot over to Sparrowfart in good condition, you know."

"It'll be fine." Marty toddled over to look his friend in the eye. "I'll only be in here for long enough to fly off and get help."

"Really?" said Jeff.

"Yes, I'll just fly out the window and..."

"The windows are closed. So is the door. You didn't think this through, did you?"

"Well, you might have said before," grumbled Marty. He vacated the parrot, drew himself up, and sent a blast of air towards the window, dislodging the curtain and flinging the casement open.

"Bloody Nora!" squeaked the parrot, tottering on its claws. A moment later, Marty had possessed it again.

"Right, I'm off," he said. "I won't be long."

"I hope not," mumbled Jeff, his eyes on the fire, which was growing more lively. "That open window's making a hell of a draught."

Marty didn't wait a second longer. He took off, hoping the parrot's flight reflexes would be enough to keep him safely airborne. He didn't have time to waste in learning how to fly. Nor could he spare the mental energy. The further he got from Jeff, the weaker and vaguer he would get. Already, he was having trouble thinking straight.

There was only one person he'd even considered going to for help, and he would need all his wits to find her and get back before it was too late.

_Gesualdo's. They were going to meet at Gesualdo's. Now, if only I can remember where Gesualdo's is..._

* * *

It didn't feel like the kind of restaurant Marty would have visited. It didn't even seem particularly Italian, though the owners had made an effort with the mock Pompeii-style wall paintings, fluted pilasters, and abundance of dark crimson drapes.

Marty would have hated those paintings. Jeannie quite liked them, especially the goings-on in the background. Whoever had done them had a sense of humour.

"Would you like to see the menu, _signorina_?" asked the waiter. He was very obviously of Chinese descent, and his attempted Italian accent had a distinctly Liverpudlian sound about it. Jeannie rather liked him, too.

"No, not yet. I'll wait until my friend gets here."

The waiter bowed slightly, refilled her water glass, and withdrew.

Jeff was running late. He must have been delayed at Mrs Sparrowfart's place. That was the trouble with this job; keeping a strict timetable was impossible, even for someone as fussy and meticulous as Jeff. Jeannie found herself smiling, as she remembered the elaborate plan and detailed briefing he'd prepared for getting her and Marty to the church for the wedding which had never happened. She loved Marty, and always would; but she was awfully fond of Jeff, too.

He should have been here by now. _I hope that woman didn't give him any trouble_, thought Jeannie. Her fingers clenched until the knuckles turned white. _If she has..._

So deep was her immersion in planning what she would do to anyone who messed with Jeff, that at first the disturbance at the other side of the room, close to the entrance, didn't reach her. Only when a flash of bright green swooped across her peripheral vision did she come back to reality. She twisted round on her chair, trying to follow the movement of what she belatedly realised was a bird. A parrot, in fact.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed.

The little Chinese waiter, showing admirable initiative, had grabbed a tablecloth, and was stalking the bird, which had come to rest clinging to one of the crimson drapes. The parrot cocked one eye at him, waited till he was close, then took off. For a few seconds, it fluttered above Jeannie's table, then landed, not very gracefully, on the chair opposite, and looked her in the eye, uttering one word, or something like it: "_Jeannie._"

She stared back at it, dumbstruck. Had it just said... No, it was impossible.

She glanced at the waiter, who was now sneaking up behind it, tablecloth at the ready. He flung it, but the parrot, with split-second timing, flapped out of danger just in time, while the cloth flicked across the table, sending everything flying.

Someone shrieked. It might have been Jeannie. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the back of her chair for balance. This couldn't be a coincidence. It must be the parrot Jeff had gone to Canley after. She'd told him to leave it in the car when he got here, but he must have let it escape, and somehow it had found its way in here. As for it saying her name, that was just ridiculous. She didn't believe it.

"_Jeannie_!" It was now clinging precariously to the top of one of the half-columns on the wall. As it caught her eye, it dropped off, executed a diving manoeuvre and sped towards the door. If she was right, and it was Sparrowfart's parrot, that was their fee making a getaway. Jeannie grabbed her bag and started in pursuit.

"Oi, where are you going?" said the waiter as she went past.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," she called back. "I'm... I'm allergic to feathers." And she ran.

Out in the street she stopped, looking from side to side. It was almost dark, and there was no sign of Jeff, nor even of his car; but the parrot had landed on the bonnet of her Triumph Stag, its claws scrabbling on the paintwork.

"Jeff?" If the parrot was here, Jeff must be somewhere nearby. "Jeff, where are you?"

"Canley," said the parrot.

"Canley? Why would he still be... Oh, this is just stupid. Parrots don't talk." Jeannie gazed around again. "Jeff?"

The bird uttered a shrill whistle, and flew to the top of a lamp post. "Canley!"

This was insane. But the idea which had taken form in her mind was growing rapidly. Something had happened to Jeff. Abruptly she flung herself into her car, started the engine, and set it going, fast.

"What's the address?" she muttered, trying to remember. "Fulham Road? No... it's Fulton. Fulton Close."

She had no idea where Fulton Close was. But she would find it. She had to.

* * *

Jeff came to himself with a start. He'd gone off again, he didn't know how long for, but a cramp in his calf muscle had woken him. He moved it a little, but an alarming creak from the bookcase warned him not to go too far.

_I'd have been better off if it had killed me outright, _he thought.

The room had grown dark while he was dozing, and the flickering light of the fire was no comfort. It was quite a healthy little blaze now, still confined to the fireplace although the surrounding paper was starting to smoulder. Once it caught, it would spread fast, and he wouldn't stand a chance. It was a pretty awful prospect. His only hope was Marty, and when all was said and done, what could Marty do?

It was probably the smoke from the fire which made him feel so drowsy. He could hardly keep his eyes open. "Stay awake, Jeff," he muttered. "Don't fall asleep."

"Jeff! Wake up!"

Once again he jerked back to consciousness. The parrot was back, swaying from one foot to the other, two inches from his nose. "Marty..."

"It's all right, Jeff. Jeannie's on her way. She'll be here any minute."

"Jeannie...?" Jeff shook his head, trying to clear the smoke from his mind. "She can't... it's too heavy, she's not strong enough... Marty, you idiot, why didn't you just go and possess one of the neighbours, and get them to phone the fire brigade?"

"Because I didn't think of it," snapped Marty. "And you can't talk. You never thought of it, either. But never mind. Next time you're in mortal danger, which, knowing you, will probably be some time within the next three days, I'll know what to do."

"Oh, shut it," Jeff mumbled. His eyelids were drooping again. He couldn't stop them.

"Jeff! Don't go to sleep!"

Jeff was almost beyond answering, He laid his head down on the rug, gave a weary sigh, and...

"Ow!" He was suddenly very wide awake. "Marty, did you just bite my ear?"

"Yes, I did, and I'll do it again if you don't stay awake." The parrot glared back at him, its feathers bristling. "I mean it. You're not dying on my birthday."

Whatever kind of response Jeff was about to deliver – and he had several forceful possibilities jockeying for position – it never came to anything. From somewhere downstairs, a faint call reached his ears. He drew a deep breath to answer, took in a lungful of smoke, and choked.

"Jeannie!" The shout came from Marty, or from the parrot. Jeff was in no state to know which.

He heard footsteps on the landing, then the door burst open, sending an eddy of air which picked up a handful of burning pages from the fireplace and scattered them across the room. The next moment, Jeannie was on her knees beside him: "Jeff! What happened? Are you hurt?"

He scarcely had a voice to answer with. "No. I'm stuck."

Jeannie sent a desperate look at the half-dozen spot fires which had broken out, then took hold of the end of the bookcase and tried to move it. It didn't budge.

"Jeannie, you can't lift it," said Jeff, half-choking again. "Just get out. There's nothing you can do."

"No. No, Jeff. I'm not leaving you." She got to her feet, breathing fast as she scanned the room. Suddenly she darted out of sight, and returned a moment later bearing the curtain pole which had come down with the curtains when Marty had blown the window open. She took a moment to assess the weight of the bookcase, then inserted one end of the pole under the edge.

"Jeannie, what are you doing?" Jeff could hardly get the words out. "Get out of here!"

"I won't lose you, too," she replied fiercely, as she pushed a stack of books under her improvised lever. "As soon as it lifts, you get out from underneath as fast as you can."

"Jeannie!"

She wasn't listening. Bracing herself against the shock, she threw all her weight onto the other end of the pole. There was a terrifying cracking sound from the pole, but it held. Jeff dug his fingers into the rug, and pulled. For an agonised moment he thought it wasn't enough. "Jeannie," he panted, "please...!"

"Don't you dare die on me, Jeff Randall!" Her voice was strained almost to snapping point. It acted on Jeff like an electric current, and with a surge of strength he was quite sure he didn't actually have, he dragged himself clear.

"I'm out. Let go," he gasped, and covered his face as the bookcase crashed to the floor. For several seconds he lay still. He could hear Jeannie sobbing for breath. He knew he had to go to her, but he couldn't get up.

"Jeff!" squawked Marty frantically. "Jeannie – _Jeff_!" Neither Jeff nor Jeannie were capable of responding at that point. More drastic action was required, and Marty did the only thing a parrot could: he bit Jeff's ear again.

"Marty, you – " But at least it got Jeff going. He pushed himself up, got unsteadily to his feet and staggered to Jeannie's side. He flung his arm around her, and lifted her upright. Through the gloom and the thickening smoke, he caught a fleeting glimpse of vivid green.

"The door's over here," screeched the parrot, and Jeff, putting forth a final effort, and almost carrying Jeannie, stumbled forward.

How they made it safely down the stairs, he had no idea. By the time his head had cleared enough to form a coherent thought, he was already outside, sitting on the roadway with his back against the front wheel of his car, aware that he ached all over. He put his hand out, and found a leg, and he looked up to find Jeannie standing next to him, leaning on the bonnet, supporting herself on both hands.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

She nodded, and stretched a hand down to help him up. For half a minute, they both watched the smoke coming from the upstairs window of Mrs Sparrowfart's house, and the flickering light within.

"Where's Mar – " Jeff cut the name short. "I mean, where's the parrot?"

"I don't know," said Jeannie. "What if it's escaped? What if it's gone for good?"

"Don't panic, Jeannie. I'm sure it'll turn up." Jeff turned his head to look for the missing bird, and winced as his neck gave a spasm. He was going to be sore for a while.

As if in answer to his optimism, the parrot came toddling along the road. It stopped by Jeff's feet, glared up at him, and then keeled over on its side. Jeannie gave a cry, and dropped on her knees beside it.

"There's no need to get all dramatic," observed Marty, materialising in the middle of the road. "It's only a parrot."

_You've got no idea, have you? _thought Jeff. But he reworded the sentiment and passed it on: "Jeannie, don't take on. It's just a parrot. "

"Just a parrot that saved your life," Jeannie snapped back. "I wouldn't have known you were in trouble, and I'd never have got here in time, if it hadn't warned me."

"What?" Jeff sent a furious look at Marty, who gazed back with an air of sweet innocence.

"It flew into Gesualdo's." Jeannie stroked the bright green feathers. "It called me by name. That was why I came looking for you."

For a moment, Jeff considered telling Jeannie the truth; but experience had taught him it was better she remained ignorant. He'd have to convince her she was mistaken. "It can't have done, Jeannie. Parrots don't really talk, you know that. Besides, it was up there with me the whole time."

"Are you sure?" She stared up at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

"I should be. It bit me often enough. Look, Jeannie, if you say there was a parrot just like this one in the restaurant, well, I believe you. And maybe it made some bird noises that sounded like your name. I believe that, too. But it's probably just a lucky coincidence, because it can't have been this one."

Jeannie went pink, and bit her lip, looking at the sad little bundle of feathers. "It's a shame, though."

"Well, yes, it is," replied Jeff. "I mean, that's another fee gone down the drain. Sparrowfart might not mind about us burning his wife's house down, but if anything happens to his parrot..."

Taking advantage of Jeannie's attention being on the bird, he gestured forcibly towards Marty: _Get back in there!_ Marty scowled, but dissolved into a mist which folded around the parrot and disappeared. The bird twitched, scrabbled its claws and opened one wicked yellow eye which it fixed on Jeff.

"Happy now, short-arse?" it croaked.

Jeannie's lip quivered as she picked it up and cradled it gently in her hands. "Well, if it can't talk, it's doing a pretty good imitation. Quite observant, too."

"Oh, very funny."

The fire was starting to attract attention from the neighbours. "You know, it might be a good idea if we weren't here when the fire brigade turns up," said Jeff seriously.

"You don't think we should own up?"

"I think it might be a bit tricky to explain. And it was the parrot's fault, really."

"Okay, Jeff. I'll drive you home."

"No, it's all right. I'll take my car. I'm not hurt, just a bit stiff. I'll drive carefully. And I'd better take the parrot. Come on, little feller."

"Sod off," replied the parrot, snuggling closer to Jeannie.

She giggled. "Did it just say...?"

"Didn't hear anything," replied Jeff, taking the parrot from her hands. "I keep telling you, Jeannie. Parrots don't talk. Why don't you go home and get some rest? It's been a busy night."

"No, I'll follow you home, to make sure you get there safely. Both of you." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and hurried away.

Jeff opened the door of his car and eased himself in. He put the bird on the passenger seat. "Now, just stay there, and belt up," he said.

"This is not how I want to spend my birthday," grumbled Marty. "How long do I have to be a parrot?"

"Only until we get our fee from Sparrowfart. And maybe a little bit after, so he doesn't get suspicious." Jeff put the car into gear, and set off.

"All right. But I'll be telling him a few things while I'm there. Interesting facts about his ancestry, his habits, and where he's going to end up when his time comes. We'll be having quite the conversation."

"I bet you will. Thing is, Marty…"

"I know, I know. Parrots don't talk." If ever a parrot looked smug, Marty did.

"Well," he concluded, "we'll just see about that."


End file.
